Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
One week until the full moon.
Marina sat cross-legged on Bea’s living room floor, surrounded by papers, printouts, and the musty smell of old records she’d borrowed from the town archives. Bea had disappeared an hour ago, muttering something about chaos magic and needing crystals, leaving Marina alone with her research.
And her research was telling her something terrifying.
Malachar had been the Draven family’s “advisor” for exactly as long as the curse had existed. To the year. To the season.
The records were clear. In 1824, a Draven ancestor had broken an oath to protect a witch’s descendants.
Had stood by while a mob burned their home.
The dying witch had cursed the Draven line: a slow drain on the family fortune that would last until the debt was paid or the bloodline burned out.
And the demon who’d witnessed the curse being cast?
Who’d attached himself to the suffering like a parasite and been “advising” the family ever since?
Malachar.
Marina stared at the yellowed document, a copy of the original contract, preserved in the town’s supernatural archives. The signature at the bottom was unmistakable. The same elegant script. The same flourishes on the capital letters.
Two hundred years, and he hadn’t aged a day.
She pulled out her phone and started cross-referencing. Financial records. Investment histories. Every time the Dravens had made a major business decision, there was a note in the margins: “Per Malachar’s recommendation.”
And every single one of those recommendations had failed.
Not obviously. Not immediately. But slowly, steadily, predictably, exactly the way the curse worked. A promising investment that turned sour. A reliable partner who suddenly went bankrupt. A market that crashed just when the Dravens were most exposed.
He wasn’t trying to help them break the curse.
He was feeding on it.
Marina understood. Her grandmother had known. That’s why she’d hidden the counter-spell in a recipe book: because she’d understood that someone was actively preventing the Dravens from finding a cure. Someone who’d been watching. Waiting. Profiting.
Marina thought about every time Alessandro had mentioned Malachar.
The complicated mix of obligation and distrust. The way he’d deferred to the demon’s advice even when it didn’t feel right.
A decade of conditioning, slowly eroding Alessandro’s instincts until he couldn’t tell friend from enemy anymore.
And Marina was the only one who could see it clearly.
She gathered the documents carefully, hands trembling with suppressed rage. Her grandmother had died two years ago, two years after a lifetime of trying to break this curse. Had Malachar known about her research? Had he done something to stop her?
The questions burned in Marina’s chest, but she forced herself to focus. First, she had to make Alessandro see the truth. Then they could figure out what to do about it.
Even at this distance, even through the hurt, Alessandro’s presence pressed against her awareness like a distant thunderstorm. He was at the bakery; she could sense his agitation, his guilt, his confusion. He still didn’t understand.
She had to make him understand.
She found him in the kitchen, staring at a mixing bowl like it held the answers to the universe. The bakery was closed, had been closed for two days now, since their fight. The bread dough she’d been making had gone untouched, slowly deflating on the counter.
“I need to show you something,” she said.
He looked up. His hope was right there, naked and clumsy, and her throat tightened against it.
“Marina. I’m sorry—”
“Not yet. First, look at this.”
She spread the documents across the counter. The contract. The financial records. The pattern she’d traced through two centuries of Draven history.
“Malachar signed the original curse contract,” she said. “As a witness. In 1824.”
Alessandro stopped. “That’s…”
“Two hundred years ago. He’s been your family’s ‘advisor’ for exactly as long as the curse has existed. And every piece of advice he’s given has made things worse.”
“Marina, that’s not…”
“Look at the records.” She pointed to the investment histories. “1892: Malachar recommends railroad bonds. The company collapses within a year. 1929: Malachar suggests pulling out of stable investments before the crash. Your family loses everything when the safer options fail instead. 1987…”
“Coincidence.”
“Is it?” She stepped closer. “He’s PROFITING from your family’s suffering, Alessandro. The curse doesn’t just drain Draven fortune. It has to go somewhere. And Malachar has been there, collecting, for two centuries.”
She felt him trying to reject it, his denial pressing back against her certainty. Trying to find an explanation that didn’t require accepting the truth.
“You’re seeing conspiracy where there’s just coincidence.”
“And you’re seeing coincidence because the alternative is too terrible to face.”
He looked away. “You don’t understand…”
“I understand perfectly.” She had to force the next words past the tightness in her throat. “If I’m right, then you’ve been trusting the enemy for ten years. You’ve been letting him close to your family. You’ve been…”
“Stop.”
The word came out hoarse, half a plea.
His terror reached her, cold sweat that wasn’t hers breaking out along her arms. Not of Malachar, of himself. Of what he’d done. Of what his blindness might have cost.
“I can’t,” he said, barely audible. “I can’t accept that I’ve been so wrong. That everything I’ve done to save my family has actually helped the thing destroying them.”
“You didn’t know.”
“I should have.” His hands were shaking. “You saw it immediately. The first time you met him. And I’ve known him for years and never…”
The last word dissolved into silence.
Marina wanted to go to him. To hold him. To tell him it would be okay.
But it wouldn’t be okay. Not yet. Not until he actually believed her.
“You can still stop him,” she said. “We can still break the curse. My grandmother’s recipe…”
“Where is it?”
She hesitated. “I moved it. After he came to the bakery. I hid it somewhere he wouldn’t think to look.”
“Where?”
“The flour storage closet. Behind the emergency supplies.”
Relief crossed his face. Or guilt.
“Show me,” he said. “Please.”
They went downstairs together, the space between them charged with everything they hadn’t said. The storage closet was exactly as Marina had left it: supplies stacked neatly, containers organized by date, her hiding spot invisible to anyone who didn’t know to look.
She pulled out the container marked “EXPIRED - DO NOT USE.”
It was empty.
“No.” The word came out as a whisper. “No, no, no…”
She tore through the closet. Behind every container. Under every shelf. In every possible hiding place.
The recipe book was gone.
“He found it.” Her voice rose toward panic. “He knew where I hid it. He took it while we were…”
She stopped. Remembered the closed bakery. The spike of fear that had reached her when Alessandro arrived.
“He was here. After you left for lunch. I felt him outside, but I thought…” She pressed her hands to her face. “I should have checked. I should have…”
“This isn’t your fault.”
“It’s BOTH our faults.” She spun to face him. “You trusted him. I underestimated him. And now he has the only thing that can break the curse.”
Alessandro’s expression had gone cold. Controlled. The dragon mask sliding into place.
“I’ll get it back.”
“How?”
“I’ll confront him. Demand…”
“And he’ll lie. He’ll charm you. He’ll find another excuse, and you’ll believe him because you’ve been believing him for a decade.”
The words were cruel. They were also true.
Alessandro flinched but didn’t argue.
“I’ll go,” Marina said. “I’ll confront him myself. He doesn’t know that I…”
“No.” His hand closed around her wrist. “You are not going near that demon alone.”
“He thinks I’m just a baker. He underestimates me. That’s an advantage.”
“Marina, please.” His fear for her, not for himself, pressed against her ribs like a hand. “If something happened to you…”
“Then at least I’ll have done something.” She pulled free of his grip. “Stay here. Keep Dante close. If I’m not back in an hour, call Estelle.”
“Marina—”
But she was already gone.
Malachar’s hotel was on the edge of town, far enough from the waterfront that the sea air didn’t quite reach. The building was old money pretending to be modest: the kind of place that charged astronomical rates while maintaining an air of casual elegance.
Marina found him in the garden courtyard, drinking wine like a man without a care in the world.
“Miss Pearl.” His smile was warm, welcoming, utterly false. “What a pleasant surprise. Come to discuss recipes?”
“Give it back.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“My grandmother’s book. The one you stole from my bakery while I was distracted. Give it back.”
Malachar’s smile didn’t waver, but his eyes went flat. “Careful, little seal. You’re making accusations you can’t support.”
“I don’t need to support them. I just need you to know that I know.
” She stepped closer, channeling every ounce of courage she possessed.
“You’ve been feeding on the Draven curse for two centuries.
You witnessed the original contract. Every time they’ve gotten close to breaking free, you’ve steered them wrong.
And now you’re trying to do the same to Alessandro. ”
The charm fell away.
“Clever girl.” His voice had changed: deeper, rougher, with an undertone that made her skin crawl. “I wondered how long it would take you to figure it out. Your grandmother was clever too. That’s why I made sure she never got the chance to use that recipe.”
Marina went still. “What did you do to her?”
“Nothing dramatic. A suggestion to a doctor here. A misfiled prescription there. Old age is so fragile, isn’t it?” He sipped his wine. “She suspected me, you know. At the end. But by then it was too late.”
Marina’s hands were shaking. With fear. With rage. With the terrible knowledge that this monster had helped kill her grandmother.
“I’m going to destroy you,” she whispered.
“No, little seal. You’re going to step back and stay out of dragon business.” He set down his wine glass with exaggerated care. “Because if you don’t, I’ll skin you and use your pelt as a rug.”
The threat landed. Her pelt. He knew about her pelt.
Of course he did. He’d been researching her family. He knew exactly what she was, and exactly how to hurt her.
“You wouldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t I?” He leaned forward, and she saw his true form flicker behind the human mask. A thing that had been feeding on suffering for longer than she could imagine. “Run back to your dragon, Miss Pearl. Tell him what you learned. See if he believes you.”
She ran.
Through the hotel. Through the streets. Through the salt-scented evening air that suddenly felt like a cage.
Alessandro was waiting at the bakery. The moment he saw her face, his expression shifted from worry to fury.
“What happened?”
“He admitted it. All of it.” The words tumbled out. “He’s been feeding on the curse for centuries. He killed my grandmother, or helped kill her, to stop her from breaking it. And he has the book. He has the recipe.”
“I’ll kill him.”
“No—listen to me.” She grabbed his arms, forced him to meet her eyes. “He threatened me. My pelt. He knows what I am, and he knows how to destroy me.”
Alessandro’s rage flooded through her, dark and barely contained. The dragon in his blood was screaming for violence.
“He threatened you.”
“He wants us scared. He wants us to run.”
“Then we don’t run.” His voice hardened. “We fight.”
“With what? He has the recipe. He has centuries of experience. He has…”
“We have each other.”
Neither spoke.
For the first time since their fight, Marina felt the bond surge between them, not muted, not guarded, but open. Raw. Real.
“Believe me,” she said. “Please. Just this once, all the way.”
Alessandro’s hands cupped her face. His eyes were dark with fury and fear and something that looked a lot like love.
“I believe you,” he said. “I should have believed you from the beginning. I’m sorry, Marina. I’m so sorry.”
She let herself fall into his arms.
His rage and his fear and his crushing guilt poured into her, and she let him feel her own terror, her grief for her grandmother, her desperate hope that they could still win.
“He killed her,” she whispered against his chest. “My grandmother. He admitted it. He said she was too clever, that she’d figured out the recipe, so he… he made sure she never got to use it.”
Alessandro’s arms tightened around her. “I’m so sorry.”
“Two years. I’ve been grieving for two years, thinking she died of natural causes, and this whole time…” Her voice broke. “He was there. At her funeral. He sent flowers, Alessandro. He sent flowers to her funeral.”
She’d shaken his hand. Thanked him for coming. Accepted his condolences while he stood there knowing exactly what he’d done. She could still picture the flower arrangement: white lilies, tasteful, probably ordered through some high-end Manhattan florist.
“We’ll stop him,” Alessandro said, his voice low and fierce. “Whatever it takes. He doesn’t get to win.”
“The book…”
“We’ll get it back. Or we’ll find another way.
” He pulled back enough to look at her, and she saw the dragon in his eyes, not the controlled, careful man she’d grown accustomed to, but something older and more dangerous.
“He threatened you, Marina. He threatened the woman I love. That was his last mistake.”
The woman he loved.
The words settled into her heart like a warm ember.
“We need a plan,” she said.
“We need allies. Dante. Bea. Estelle. Everyone in this town who’s ever distrusted Malachar’s charm.” He cupped her face again. “But first, we need to rest. You’re shaking.”
She was. Now that the adrenaline was fading, her whole body trembled.
“Stay with me tonight,” she said. “Not on the couch. With me.”
“Marina…”
“I need to feel you close. I need to know you’re here.”
He didn’t argue. He just led her upstairs, to the small bedroom that had become theirs without either of them quite acknowledging it. They lay down together, still clothed, still terrified, but finally united.
She felt him settle. Felt the rage bank itself into something controlled, something that would burn slow and steady until it found its target. Felt his love, fierce and protective and absolutely certain.
Six days until the full moon. A demon on their heels. Her grandmother’s recipe in enemy hands.
But at least, finally, they were facing it together.
She pressed her hand flat against his chest. Felt him breathe. Slept.